off to Wales for the week, on a jolly jaunt. Dad caught hold of one under each arm and lifted them clear off the ground. Closing his eyes, he squeezed his grandsons to his chest. It made them giggle and wriggle.
Finally, he straightened. He saluted smartly, winked at me and turned his back. Swallowing hard, I watched my father walk away. I watched until he’d disappeared down the escalator.
Long after he’d gone I kept scanning the space where I’d last seen him, hoping for another glimpse. I was still watching when Finn hit Charlie over the head with a water bottle and all hell broke loose.
*
Three hours later, flight NZ001 began its ponderous run-up to the ultimate high jump. We sat stunned in a roar of sound, vibration and bereavement. Sacha’s face was turned to the window. The boys were cheering. Kit reached across the high-fiving twins and fiercely laced my fingers through his.
With a final jerk we felt England fall away beneath us, and then a grind and shudder as the landing gear was lifted.
We’d left our country.
Six
The hospital night wears on. Hours pass, but there’s no news of Finn. No call from Kit either, and he isn’t answering his phone.
I float in a pall of dread, staring in nauseated fixation at the covers of old magazines. Every time I hear footsteps, I brace myself. Finally I’m on my feet, haunting the hospital corridors with Buccaneer Bob against my chest. The pirate doll looks sad. We are restless ghosts, he and I. We don’t exist.
Finn is five years old. Just five. He fell silently in his Mr Men pyjamas. Mr Happy. Mr Tickle. Mr Bounce, who bounced too much.
Sometime during these nightmare hours, the police pay me a visit. Two broad young men, pacing sombrely down the disinfected corridor on their shiny shoes. They’re too big for the place. They have thick stab-proof vests and murmuring radios, and they walk in step. Perfectly matched, like bookends. Like twins.
I see my Charlie walking alone through life with an empty space at his side; alone at the school dance, the graduation, the wedding. Not a ghost of his other half. Not even a shadow. Just an empty space. Perhaps Charlie will walk alone forever. You might as well cut off his arms.
Just routine, say the twins in uniform, pulling out reassuring nods and notebooks as they sit down. Sorry to intrude at this difficult time. Now, er, what happened, exactly?
I tell them how Finn wandered out of his room and climbed onto the rail, and then he fell. And I saw him falling, and I ran, but I couldn’t save him.
One of the policemen scratches his nose, glancing covertly at his watch. But the other—actually, he’s older than I thought—gazes into my face without so much as a blink. He’s losing his hair. He has pale eyes. ‘Did anyone else witness the accident, Mrs McNamara?’
‘No, they were all asleep.’
‘Your husband?’
‘Kit’s on his way back from Dublin.’
Martha! yells my mother, arriving unannounced and uninvited. How can you? But I chase her out. I chase her right out, and I slam the door on her. Mentally dusting off my hands, I look the man in the eye. ‘I haven’t been able to contact him.’
They offer to help. What flight is Kit on? He can be met.
‘Thanks,’ I say firmly, ‘but he’ll contact me once he’s landed. He’ll turn on his phone and see all the texts. I must tell him myself.’
The older one seems to think for a moment, and I stop breathing. Then he asks me who else was in the house when Finn fell.
I rub my eyes. ‘My daughter, Sacha.’
‘Age?’
‘Sacha? Seventeen. But she was out for the count. Been off school with flu. Then there was Charlie, Finn’s twin. He was fast asleep too—well, obviously, it happened at midnight.’
His pen circles above the notebook. ‘Nobody else?’
He’s watching my mouth now, as though lies might come sidling out with labels on. He’s onto you , hisses Mum, with her echoing sibilance. Minimum words, maximum damage; that’s
Finally, he straightened. He saluted smartly, winked at me and turned his back. Swallowing hard, I watched my father walk away. I watched until he’d disappeared down the escalator.
Long after he’d gone I kept scanning the space where I’d last seen him, hoping for another glimpse. I was still watching when Finn hit Charlie over the head with a water bottle and all hell broke loose.
*
Three hours later, flight NZ001 began its ponderous run-up to the ultimate high jump. We sat stunned in a roar of sound, vibration and bereavement. Sacha’s face was turned to the window. The boys were cheering. Kit reached across the high-fiving twins and fiercely laced my fingers through his.
With a final jerk we felt England fall away beneath us, and then a grind and shudder as the landing gear was lifted.
We’d left our country.
Six
The hospital night wears on. Hours pass, but there’s no news of Finn. No call from Kit either, and he isn’t answering his phone.
I float in a pall of dread, staring in nauseated fixation at the covers of old magazines. Every time I hear footsteps, I brace myself. Finally I’m on my feet, haunting the hospital corridors with Buccaneer Bob against my chest. The pirate doll looks sad. We are restless ghosts, he and I. We don’t exist.
Finn is five years old. Just five. He fell silently in his Mr Men pyjamas. Mr Happy. Mr Tickle. Mr Bounce, who bounced too much.
Sometime during these nightmare hours, the police pay me a visit. Two broad young men, pacing sombrely down the disinfected corridor on their shiny shoes. They’re too big for the place. They have thick stab-proof vests and murmuring radios, and they walk in step. Perfectly matched, like bookends. Like twins.
I see my Charlie walking alone through life with an empty space at his side; alone at the school dance, the graduation, the wedding. Not a ghost of his other half. Not even a shadow. Just an empty space. Perhaps Charlie will walk alone forever. You might as well cut off his arms.
Just routine, say the twins in uniform, pulling out reassuring nods and notebooks as they sit down. Sorry to intrude at this difficult time. Now, er, what happened, exactly?
I tell them how Finn wandered out of his room and climbed onto the rail, and then he fell. And I saw him falling, and I ran, but I couldn’t save him.
One of the policemen scratches his nose, glancing covertly at his watch. But the other—actually, he’s older than I thought—gazes into my face without so much as a blink. He’s losing his hair. He has pale eyes. ‘Did anyone else witness the accident, Mrs McNamara?’
‘No, they were all asleep.’
‘Your husband?’
‘Kit’s on his way back from Dublin.’
Martha! yells my mother, arriving unannounced and uninvited. How can you? But I chase her out. I chase her right out, and I slam the door on her. Mentally dusting off my hands, I look the man in the eye. ‘I haven’t been able to contact him.’
They offer to help. What flight is Kit on? He can be met.
‘Thanks,’ I say firmly, ‘but he’ll contact me once he’s landed. He’ll turn on his phone and see all the texts. I must tell him myself.’
The older one seems to think for a moment, and I stop breathing. Then he asks me who else was in the house when Finn fell.
I rub my eyes. ‘My daughter, Sacha.’
‘Age?’
‘Sacha? Seventeen. But she was out for the count. Been off school with flu. Then there was Charlie, Finn’s twin. He was fast asleep too—well, obviously, it happened at midnight.’
His pen circles above the notebook. ‘Nobody else?’
He’s watching my mouth now, as though lies might come sidling out with labels on. He’s onto you , hisses Mum, with her echoing sibilance. Minimum words, maximum damage; that’s
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